


Your (ridiculous) eyelashes will write (a stupid poem) on my heart

by powerfulowl (StuckyFlangst)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amputee Bucky Barnes, Bartender Bucky Barnes, Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky owns a bar, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Coming Out, Enemies to Lovers, Homophobic Language, M/M, Pride, Pride Parades, Shrunkyclunks, Top Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27877362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuckyFlangst/pseuds/powerfulowl
Summary: Steve Rogers is the bane of Bucky Barnes' existence. As far as Bucky can see his mission is to try to start as many fights as possible in Bucky's fine Brooklyn drinking establishment, One Armed Buck's.And then there's his stupid cowlick and his ridiculous eyelashes.Bucky does not need this in his life.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 48
Kudos: 373





	Your (ridiculous) eyelashes will write (a stupid poem) on my heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little one shot that has been occupying space in my head for a while. For any regular readers, this is not my usual angsty fare.
> 
> Bucky's bar name is a reference to One Eyed Jacks, both a Marlon Brando Western and the name of the bar from Twin Peaks.
> 
> There is a reference to Bucky loosing his arm, and a homophobic slur is used by bar patrons who Steve takes umbrage with. Also a Fox News reporter.

Steve Rogers was the bane of Bucky Barnes’ existence.

Bucky’s life had been good – great even. He had upgraded from bartender to business owner-bartender. In the early 2000s he had been working in a sports bar, full of giant tv screens and selling Miller Lite and too sweet cocktails with cheap liquor. He was the novelty act – a one armed bartender that made a mean mixed drink and could throw the bottles around like Tom Cruise in _Cocktail_. Bucky hated it. Hated being the subject of pity and patronizing admiration – _he’d be really good looking if he had two arms_.

What he dreamed of (dreams more contained now than as a child when he had dreamed of being an astronaut or a pilot or a scuba diver) was a local bar with a harbor vibe – filled with the old sailing memorabilia Bucky had dredged up from second-hand stores and beaches over the years and stored in his parent’s garage.

When he’d hit his boss up to invest in his idea, Mario had scoffed at his proposal. But one night Tony Stark had wound up complaining to Bucky about the whisky selection at Mario’s and trying to offer to build him a new arm.

‘I’d rather you financed a bar,’ Bucky joked, pulling out a bottle of Lagavulin he kept hidden on the top shelf. And before he knew it he was the proud manager of not only _One Armed Buck’s_ – a spacious but homey bar down by the old docks in Red Hook – but also an adjacent microbrewery and a small distiller. Riding the hipster wave, (manageable numbers) of Brooklynites had flocked to _One Armed Buck’s_ for micro-brew beers and prohibition era cocktails. And if Bucky still sometimes threw the bottles around it was fine because he was the boss here.

Bucky had some reservations about this new, hip Brooklyn, but it was making him a living.

Then Steve Rogers was found in the ice. Little did Bucky know – watching the first press conference where Captain America sat ramrod straight, a small frown on his face, dressed in that ridiculous costume, a stray lock of blond hair escaping from his neatly slicked blond hair – that Steve Rogers was destined to make so much trouble for Bucky Barnes.

Sure, he’d helped save New York. And the world. And he’d helped with the clean-up.

That was where Bucky first saw him in person – in one of the volunteer squads cleaning up Manhattan. Steve Rogers was lifting an enormous block of concrete onto a truck, looking unfairly hot in dirty jeans and an obscenely tight white t-shirt. Bucky may have spent some time watching those back muscles rippling and flexing. And that _ass_ and those _thighs_ when he crouched down to shift more concrete.

‘Oh Captain, my Captain, amiright?’ muttered Hank, the supervisor of Bucky’s clean up unit.

They both sighed a little as Steve Rogers straightened up with a grunt, flicking his hair out of his eyes.

Innocent days, Bucky would think to himself later.

Inevitably Tony Stark appeared regularly in Bucky’s bar with his entourage of super-people.

Clint was often in. He ran the darts tournament. Bucky managed to beat him once, after plying Clint with barrel-aged negronis for eight hours. Clint didn’t remember, but there was a photo in the corner near the dart board.

Natasha was an informal consultant for the distillery. They’d started with gin and were working on a vodka while the whisky aged. Natasha liked to make fun of Bucky’s terrible Russian, taught to him as a child by the _babushka_ who lived in the house next door. His accent was great, but his grammar was terrible.

But about 6 months after the press conference, Tony waltzed in with Natasha, Clint and a huge, blonde supersoldier.

‘Buckaroo!’ Tony threw his arms wide and announced his arrival to the small afternoon crowd as he swaggered across the room. There was a November chill in the air, but inside it was warm – wood stove burning in the main bar as well as the Port Cabin and the Starboard Cabin – the two smaller rooms at either end.

‘This is Cap, Capsicle, the Star Spangled Man,’ Tony attempted to push Steve towards the bar. The supersoldier rolled his eyes, not budging at all.

He nodded at Bucky and held out a hand: ‘Steve Rogers.’

Bucky reached across the bar and shook, noticing the Brooklyn drawl was more pronounced than at the press conference.

‘Bucky Barnes.’

‘So Cap here can’t get drunk, but I’m sure he’d like to sample some of your fine wares.’

Steve selected a stout, and Bucky said he’d bring it over, pouring carefully and letting it settle a few times. So what if he checked out Captain America’s ass as he walked away. He was wearing ridiculous khakis today with a too tight blue woollen sweater that had Natasha written all over it. No man had the right to look that good in pants that bad.

Bucky sighed.

Everything seemed fine. Everything seemed normal.

Bucky took Steve his pint. The super-group set up in the Starboard Cabin. Clint was doing the drink runs. The bar was filling up.

Then some loud tourists came in. Maybe from the mid-west somewhere. They were talking loudly and wearing khakis looked appropriately unstylish, and sweaters with sports teams Bucky had not heard of, and did not wish to know of.

The ordered Budweiser and Bucky politely explained that he did not serve that, or Miller, and offered them a locally brewed lager which they accepted with poor grace. They paid separately but tipped together, leaving a solitary dollar bill in the tip jar.

Twenty minutes later one of the guys was back, ordering a bourbon and coke. He was also staring at Bucky’s neatly pinned left sleeve. Bucky was not going to spin this guy’s bourbon bottle.

‘Did you serve?’

Bucky shook his head. ‘I lost it in a cocktail mixing accident. You’ve gotta be cautious around blenders.’

The guy stared at Bucky and Bucky stared back. There was a loud splutter from the other side of the bar, and Bucky turned to see Steve Rogers coughing and turning an attractive shade of pink, walking past on his way to the bathroom.

‘Is that -?’ The tourist nodded, looking a bit star struck.

‘No,’ said Bucky, ‘just looks like him. Can I give you a _hand_ with anything else?’

Another cough from Captain America. They tourist narrowed his eyes at Bucky and turned and walked away. Without tipping.

It was when Steve was returning from the bathroom that things took a turn for the worse. From the bar, Bucky couldn’t hear what the group of tourists was saying. Maybe he was remaining wilfully ignorant. But they were in a corner and not bothering anyone else. His plan was to refuse them service the next time they came to the bar on the basis they were too drunk. Sure, most of them had only had one drink. But if they usually drank Bud they were definitely lightweights who couldn’t hold their craft beer.

‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ The voice of freedom, of justice, cut through the room. From the Starboard Cabin Bucky heard Clint snort and Tony give a sing song ‘ _uh-oh!_ ’.

Steve Rogers was towering over the tourists, who were glaring up at him, obviously having taken Bucky’s word that this was not, in fact, Captain America.

‘I said,’ one of the men sneered, face a very _unattractive_ shade of red, clashing with his yellow sweater, ‘I can’t believe they’re letting the faggots get married now. It’s un-American.’

Bucky sighed and moved around the bar. He wouldn’t even have to wait for them to finish their beers now. They were in clear violation of his no racism, homophobia or transphobia rule – clearly displayed over the bar.

But no, Steve Rogers couldn’t wait for Bucky to bring his finely honed bar-owner skills to throw these guys out with minimum fuss and maximum effect. Instead he had to start making a _very disappointed_ face and say, ‘So you think tolerance and love are not American values?’

Two of the guys stood up, obviously figuring that the five of them could take Steve. Not factoring in the whole _superpowers_ thing.

‘I think taking it up the ass is not an American value,’ one of the tourists says. 

Steve drew himself up, looking every inch blonde and all American, apart from those narrowed eyes, which Bucky recognized from long experience as the eyes of a _little shit who wanted to start a fight_.

‘You wanna prove how much of a man you are? Then bring it.’ Steve held his arms to the side, voice _all fucking Brooklyn_ and the guy who _was obviously a fucking idiot_ swung a sloppy right hook at _Captain Fucking America_ and _broke his hand on America’s chin_.

Steve didn’t even have to move. By the time Bucky was across the room all four of the idiots had thrown themselves at Steve. One tried a gut punch and bounced off, hitting his head on the table on the way down. Steve’s lip was bleeding from a well-aimed jab, but the jabber paid broken wrist as the price for drawing blood.

‘OUT!’ shouted Bucky, glaring at them all. ‘This is a neighborhood establishment, which does not tolerate homophobic language OR violence.’

The tourists struggled to their feet, clutching their variously broken limbs and stumbled out of the bar.

‘That includes you!’ Bucky growled, pointing at Steve. ‘You should’ve come and told me.’

Steve blinked at him a little sheepishly and rubbed his neck. He lowered his eyes and Bucky absolutely did not notice how ludicrously lush and dark his eyelashes were against his pale skin.

‘I’m sorry,’ Steve mumbled. ‘I just don’t like –’

‘Out.’ Bucky pointed. Steve shuffled off, Tony and Clint emerging to follow him, both laughing gleefully.

‘I’m not letting you ruin my afternoon out,’ Natasha called after them, and settled on a stool at the bar.

Bucky growled and started pouring her a Cosmopolitan.

‘I fucking hate bar fights,’ he said.

Natasha smirked at him.

‘You’re going to hate Steve Rogers then.’

\-----

And so it went. Superheroes superheroed, saving the world, revealing Nazi organizations buried within world governments (surprise, surprise), almost destroying humanity with sentient robots.

Bucky was pretty pissed off with Tony about that last one.

But on and off through the years, they’d appear in his bar for a quiet drink. Which would _never stay quiet_ if Steve Rogers was there.

It was like Steve had an instinct for people being offensive. Bucky had one too, and he used it to refuse service to people before they got out of control, to provide such poor service that they left without him asking, to ask them firmly and wait while they assessed whether they were going to start a fight with a guy with one arm and then watch them leave.

But Steve’s instinct was _better_ than his, or at least his super hearing kept him a step ahead of Bucky, and he used it to confront people head on.

Bucky could tell Steve was itching for a fight, that he missed the days when he was small and could probably just throw himself at people serene in the knowledge that he was the underdog, letting fists and feet fly (and probably gnashing his teeth as well – Bucky reckoned he would have been a dirty fighter).

Now, of course, he was so overpowered he couldn’t really in good conscience get into a fight, so he would just _start_ them. He was a fucking _chaos demon_.

_But they were racist, Bucky_. _They were saying things about the President._

_They were talking about putting something in that woman’s drink, Bucky._

_They were hiding their MAGA caps in their backpacks, Bucky._

‘AND YOU COULD HAVE COME AND TOLD ME ABOUT IT STEVE!’ Bucky would always end up shouting, after someone had broken a pool cue across Steve’s head, or there was a pile of groaning assholes on the floor who didn’t have the good sense not to try to headbutt Captain America.

Bucky tried to ban Steve several times, but sadly Tony as owner of the establishment would always revoke the ban the next time he wanted to get a drink with Steve.

Bucky took his revenge in small ways. For example, he had a stash of Asgardian mead that Thor had left him ( _SO I MAY ALSO ENJOY THE FESTIVITIES WITH MY FRIENDS IN YOUR FINE ESTABLISHMENT_ ) but he would _not_ be giving it to Steve Rogers. Steve drunk would surely only be worse.

Okay, so one time after the whole Triskelion thing, when Steve discovered the organization he had died fighting was in fact the organization he’d been working for, and he turned up alone at the bar, looking sad, that errant lock of hair falling sadly over his blue, puppy dog eyes, that _one time_ Bucky had poured him a few glasses of mead.

‘It was your own fault for moving to DC,’ Bucky said, pouring another glass out.

Steve pushed his hand through his hair, making it all stick up, and sighed.

‘I know, I know.’ Then he brightened a little. ‘But Pepper’s been helping me and I’m about to move into a place in Brooklyn. This can really be my local then.’

He smirked at Bucky and took another sip of mead.

Bucky narrowed his eyes.

‘This is just a once off Rogers – don’t think I don’t remember that you’re banned after than fight with the Nazi skins.’

‘But they were _Nazis_ Bucky,’ Steve pouted.

‘I KNOW AND I WASN’T GOING TO FUCKING LET THEM IN,’ Bucky roared.

Steve smirked again, licking mead off his lips, which were distractingly pink and shiny. Stupid Steve Rogers with his pouty mouth that would look perfect wrapped around Bucky’s dick, if only he wasn’t such an asshole and probably also straight.

And then there was the one time that had really, really cemented Bucky’s hatred of Steve Rogers.

It was 2017. It was a bad year. Bucky was having to really crack down on the MAGA hat ban, even in Brooklyn. It was May, and getting warmer, but summer held none of its usual promise.

Steve had come in with Wanda and Sam, which was totally cheating because he knew Bucky would _never_ throw Wanda out. He had even offered her a job at the bar if she wanted to give up superheroing. She was helping him with another vodka line – Red Mist.

Sam was, obviously, a total asshole. He and Steve together were the _worst_. How two human beings could be so addicted to adrenaline and doing the right thing was beyond Bucky.

As soon as Bucky heard the guy say _you’re a sweet little thing aren’t you_ he was turning his head in slow motion, hearing Tony’s _uh-oh_ echoing in his ears. The guy – who was a buff-looking footballer type except with a plaid shirt and a hipster beard – was leaning against the pool table blocking Wanda’s shot and Steve was visibly _increasing in size_ from his spectator position against the wall.

Wanda was raising an eyebrow, and obviously considering using her powers to pull the guy’s pants down or something when the guy’s friend – skinnier, also bearded, wearing an expensive-looking Che Guevara sweater – muttered something about how she was wasting her time with Sam, and she should consider ditching her game and discussing critical theory with them, since Sam obviously had street smarts but didn’t understand revolutionary praxis.

‘What did you say?’ Such a classic Rogers line.

And before Bucky could vault the bar hipster footballer was stepping up to Steve.

‘It’s none of your business, man, get the fuck away.’

Wanda was rolling her eyes, and Sam starting spinning his pool cue, flashing a shit-eating grin and saying, ‘You want to talk value theory?’

Che was obviously a bit smarter that his companion and by the time the fight proper was starting ( _like – how? how was this a fight? fucking Steve Rogers_ ) had a glass in his hand and was throwing it at Steve.

Of all the techniques Bucky had seen deployed against Steve Rogers, this turned out to be the most effective. Not that it registered on a Steve Rogers scale of being hit in the head. But the glass smashed, carving a slice through his head and cheek.

And it _bled_.

‘GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!’ Bucky roared.

The two hipsters decided that, having drawn blood, they could hightail it without a loss of face. Sam looked at Bucky and mouthed – _moi?_

‘You can clean up the glass, Birdman. Wanda – find new friends. And you’ – Bucky pointed at Steve – ‘come with me.’

Steve had pulled his t-shirt up in a feeble attempt to staunch the flow of blood, revealing his ridiculous abs and his pornographic pectoral muscles. Bucky marched him out the back to the staff bathroom.

‘Off,’ he ordered, and Steve tugged the bloody t-shirt off.

Bucky ran cold water over a hand towel and threw it at Steve, who obediently started wiping himself down.

The cuts were already healing. It was slightly disconcerting to see the skin start to knit together. On anyone else it would have needed stitches, but on Steve the marks would likely be gone in a day.

It made Bucky feel a little sad, for some reason.

‘Sorry, but they –’ Steve started.

And here came the anger again.

‘ _They hardly said anything Steve. They were pretentious jerks. Wanda was fine. Sam was fine. Everyone was fine.’_

Steve blinked at him, and then looked down, fiddling with the wet towel.

Fucking hell. Those shoulders. Those biceps. Bucky had never seen him shirtless before.

Sometimes he saw him on the news, his suit (which had improved with some design interventions from Tony) charred and dirty, his face bloodied and bruised. Bucky has once seen footage of him plummeting from a plane, holding just his shield. _Fucking idiot!_ Bucky had yelled at the TV. Who does that?

‘I know you’re a big hero, I know you fight evil and all that shit, but this is _my bar_ and I can _handle assholes_. They’re just ordinary, everyday assholes. Captain America doesn’t need to intervene.’

Bucky handed Steve another towel and took the wet one, throwing it in the laundry hamper with the beer-soaked bar rags.

Steve started drying himself off, rubbing the towel over the pale expanse of his damp skin, his hard, pink nipples.

And fuck, was Natasha helping him with his shopping now? Those jeans were _tight_ and was that all Steve Rogers in there how fucking big was –?

Bucky’s eyes snapped up and Steve was staring at him, pupils huge and dark with a thin rim of sky blue. His lips (so pink and pouty and wet) were slightly parted and his massive chest was rising and falling quickly. His hair, as ever, was sticking every which way, that cowlick falling over his forehead –

And Bucky was growling again, pressing his hand against the firm swell of Steve’s tits and pushing him back against the tile wall. Steve was a little taller than him and obviously a thousand times stronger. But he yielded to Bucky’s hand.

They stood for a long moment, staring at one another. Bucky had completely lost track of the purpose of this exercise. Was he reprimanding Steve?

His cock was hard in his pants. His breath was coming hard and fast.

Then he was pulling Steve off the wall, tugging him along behind him as he kicked the door to the alleyway open and slammed it behind them.

The night was warm, and they were sheltered in the doorway, the sounds of the city distant.

Bucky slammed Steve against the brick, pushing a finger into his bare, heaving chest.

‘You,’ Bucky said, ‘are a real jerk.’ Then he attacked Steve’s mouth – that pink, pouty, wet mouth. And Steve moaned, eyelashes fluttering, whole body turning to muscular putty against Bucky.

Bucky crowded in on him, kissing him hard, sucking on his tongue, biting down on his lips, tasting a tangy edge of blood.

Their bodies pressed in a hot line and Bucky ground their hips together, his cock throbbing at the feel of the bulge in Steve’s jeans.

Steve’s hands were on Bucky’s hips – finding flesh in the gap between Bucky’s t-shirt and his jeans. His hands were calloused. Which was strange. Bucky had thought they would be smooth and soft. _He’d thought about it?_

Bucky pushed even harder, pinching at Steve’s nipple and relishing the little cry that escaped his lips.

He moved his mouth down, biting Steve’s neck just below his ear and pulling out another pained moan.

‘You have _not been behaving_ have you Steve?’

Steve whimpered a little and shook his head.

‘Bane of my fucking existence,’ Bucky rasped, undoing Steve’s fly and thrusting his hand down Steve’s pants.

_Fuck_. His cock was huge, glorious, _hot_. The warmth pulsing from Steve’s body was intense, but from his crotch it was like _fire_. Bucky grabbed and _squeezed_ , his own dick pulsing at the broken whine that came from Steve’s throat.

‘You _owe_ me Steve Rogers,’ Bucky whispered in his ear. ‘ _Down on your knees_ ,’ he ordered, and Steve dropped.

Steve’s face was pressing into Bucky’s crotch now, and Bucky had his hand in that blonde hair ( _finally_ ). It was just as soft as he thought it would be. _He’d thought about it?_

‘Undo my pants, Steve,’ Bucky said, stroking and tugging a little at Steve’s hair.

Steve reached up and fumbled with the button, pulled down the zip.

‘Now get my cock out, like I know you want to.’

Steve moaned a little, flicking a glance up at Bucky. Those ridiculous eyelashes should be illegal, Bucky thought. Then Steve was pulling Bucky’s jeans and boxers down and gently freeing Bucky’s very, very hard dick.

‘That’s right, that’s good,’ _what the fuck am I saying?_ Bucky thought to himself. ‘Now put it in your mouth, sweetheart.’

And what had Bucky done to deserve this? Steve Rogers parting his soft lips, eyes open a little as he gazed at Bucky’s face so blissfully out and swallowed his cock down in one smooth, deft movement.

Bucky groaned, having to move his hand for a moment to rest it against the wall.

Then Steve just went to town, pulling back and fucking his mouth all the way down on Bucky’s cock, choking a little and slobbering joyously, tongue flicking over Bucky’s shaft, over the tip as he pulled back again. It was fast, it was messy, it was glorious. Steve Rogers sucked cock like a fucking _American Hero_.

Bucky started to move his hips a little, rocking in rhythm with Steve to fuck a little harder down his throat.

‘Touch yourself,’ he whispered, looking down at where Steve’s cock was hanging, red and weeping.

Steve wrapped one of his hands around his own cock, while the other squeezed at Bucky’s balls, sending waves of tight pleasure through his gut.

They alley was full of grunting, wet slaps, choked off moans. Steve’s hand was pumping at his cock in time with the motion of his head, of Bucky’s hips.

‘Fuck fuck fuck Steve yes yes yes,’ Bucky babbled then he was coming, spilling down Steve’s throat, legs shaky, brick warm under his hand. Steve was moaning and dribbling as he swallowed down Bucky’s come, tongue flicking as he slowly pulled off Bucky’s cock, hand still moving frantically on his dick.

Bucky steadied himself then moved his hand to Steve’s hair, yanking his head back hard. It was fucking _glorious_ – his cock red and wet with pre-come in his huge fist, jean arounds his thighs, massive body kneeling before Bucky, neck exposed and eyes glazed, chin covered with spit and Bucky’s come.

‘Come for me Steve, come,’ and Steve shouted and came, spurting over his hand, over the concrete, and subsiding into little hiccupping sobs.

They paused for a moment, Bucky just drinking in the beauty, tears gathering at the corner of Steve’s eyes.

Then Bucky pulled him back up, fixing up Steve’s jeans, wiping him down a little, doing up his own fly.

He wiped his fingers over the corners of Steve’s eyes and kissed that fucked out mouth a few times.

‘I hope you learned you lesson, jerk,’ Bucky said.

‘Sure, punk, you showed me,’ Steve murmured huskily.

‘Let’s get you some water,’ Bucky said, searching for his keys.

And he fed Steve about 2 litres of water and found him a spare t-shirt and sent him on his way.

The next time Bucky saw him on TV it was on some dreadful talk show and they were asking him about his love life. Steve was smiling awkwardly and shifting in his chair. They talked about how he’d been seen out with Wanda, and the Black Widow, and Jennifer Lawrence.

Bucky sighed. He’d been trying not to think too hard about the terrible strategic error he’d made by seducing Captain America into giving him a blow job in an alleyway. But his stomach twisted a little at the fact that Steve Rogers – so upright, so righteous, always standing up for the little guy and for equal rights and love and all that bullshit – was just another closeted guy who’d end up married with three kids.

Whatever.

The next time Steve came in with Tony he gave Bucky a shy smile, but Bucky just scowled at him.

When the inevitable fight started a few hours later, Steve said – ‘But Bucky, he said you were –’ and Bucky snarled, ‘I can take care of myself _Captain_.’

Steve subsided and looked down at the floor as he shuffled away.

Those eyelashes should be _illegal_.

\-----

‘Is Steve okay,’ Bucky asked Natasha, as she took the alcohol reading from the new test batch.

‘I thought you hated him?’ Natasha said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Why would you care?’

Bucky glared, and then sighed.

‘So, he came into the bar last weekend with Clint, and these guys were making sexist comments to some women playing pool.’

Natasha nodded. ‘I think I see where this is going.’

‘No you don’t,’ Bucky replied. ‘That’s the thing. He _came up to the bar and told me about it_. And _let me deal with it myself_.’

‘Huh.’ Natasha said, almost sounding surprised.

‘Exactly,’ Bucky noted the reading down on his spreadsheet. ‘So I wondered, does he have some sort of super-flu? Is he a skrull?’

Natasha seemed to think about it for a while. ‘I don’t think so. But I’ll check.’

Natasha texted him a few days later: _not a skrull_.

But she didn’t say Steve was okay.

After Steve reported some women making transphobic comments in the Port Cabin a few weeks later, Bucky was driven to the extreme of asking Sam if everything was okay.

Sam sighed a little.

‘I think it’s just taken a bit longer than everyone thought for Steve to adjust. He’s finally realizing he’s not a little scrappy fighter anymore, and he brings a missile to any gun fight he’s in, and it’s not really fair. It’s hard for him to cope with that.’

Bucky made a noise and attempted very hard not to think about Steve’s missile.

But it was Clint who finally solved the mystery. He had been testing Bucky’s new barrel-aged Sazerac one quiet Sunday when he finally confessed.

‘I told him,’ Clint suddenly burst out, after staring guiltily at his half empty glass for 5 minutes.

‘Told who what?’ Bucky asked.

‘I told Steve how you lost your arm.’ Clint screwed up his face and squeezed his eyes shut.

‘Fuck,’ Bucky said, throwing a towel down on the bar. ‘That explains it.’

‘What?’ Clint opened one eye.

‘Why he’s stopped getting into fights in here.’

‘Oh yeah.’ Clint drained his glass. ‘It would explain that.’

Bucky had first met Clint when he was 17 and underage drinking in a biker bar. Bucky had run away from home (with the knowledge of his parents but without their permission) to see the USA. He had an old Suzuki Intruder and the wind in his hair.

Then in a bar in North Carolina, a fight had started. Bucky hadn’t started it, or really been involved in it, but at some point, because it was the USA, someone had pulled a shotgun out and had missed their target and hit Bucky’s arm.

Clint had stemmed the bleeding and ridden with him in the ambulance, but the arm was gone. Bucky had returned to his parents, and Brooklyn, and Clint had taught him to juggle.

Then turned out to be Hawkeye.

Whatever.

Bucky sighed.

‘So, he’s okay. He’s just feeling guilty because he didn’t take me seriously when I said I didn’t like bar fights.’

‘What you actually said was that you hated them, and they were all fun and games until somebody loses an arm.’

‘And he laughed.’ Bucky sighed again.

‘Yeah.’ Clint shrugged. ‘It _was_ pretty funny. Also true.’

They both sat thoughtfully for a while.

Clint broke the silence. ‘Look, it hasn’t been easy for him. You know. The whole being defrosted and finding himself in the future thing. Natasha keeps trying to set him up on dates. They always go badly. He mostly goes on missions and tries to watch all the movies and read all the books people recommend to him, like one day he will finally catch up. Bar fights were his way of connecting with his pre-serum self.’

Bucky hums. He thinks maybe some of those dates should have tried getting Steve to give them head in an alleyway. ‘I’m sorry I spoiled his fun.’

‘Nah, don’t worry man. He’ll work something out.’

\-----

Bucky loved Pride. He loved it even more than Halloween.

Generally he cultivated a grizzled, grumpy bartender schtick, wearing lots of black (well, dark plaid anyway – he was from Brooklyn). Over the years he’d grown his hair out, and generally pulled it back into a ponytail or a bun (what – he was from Brooklyn). He also cultivated a fetching five day shadow most of the time.

He dated a bit, but there wasn’t much time when you ran a bar. Mostly he used Grindr to hook up with other hospitality workers at weird times of the day.

He was aware that he was in his late thirties now, and maybe he should hire more staff and have some evenings off.

But today was the greatest day of the year. Today he was wearing tiny rainbow sequined booty shorts with gold combat boots and a red mesh tank top. Natasha had done his glittery eye makeup and Wanda had braided his hair with rainbow ribbons.

The bar was opened up, flags flying, and it was a party everywhere.

Bucky didn’t go to the march, because he liked to be here, in his place, serving drinks and giving people a place to relax.

It was the one time of the year he allowed a big screen to be set up – broadcasting the march. Rainbow balloons, feathers, headdresses; painted faces, unpainted faces; the stupid corporate floats, the kickass community floats.

Bucky was working the floor, clearing glasses, putting out food, when there was a collective intake of breath from the crowd.

Bucky looked up at the screen and the parade had stopped. At the bar, Kate was turning down the music and turning up the TV.

‘It seems that there has been a threat called in,’ the CNN announcer was saying, pressing their earpiece. ‘We don’t currently have any information about the nature of – ’

The announcer broke off and whipped their head up to look at the sky.

There was a rush of sound as Ironman shot across the crowd. The camera lurched slowly after the flying figure.

‘Um, it looks like the Avengers have been called in,’ the announcer stumbled to get their bearings. ‘That suggests this is not an ordinary bomb threat. Perhaps another example of alien technology being deployed.’

The camera swung across the crowd nervously shifting.

‘ _Please, everyone remain calm_ ,’ a voice could be heard broadcasting across the hubbub. America’s voice. ‘ _We are currently identifying the threat and should have it contained soon. Please stay where you are_.’

Bucky could see Captain America’s masked face on the screens set up to show the parade. He was obviously standing near the crowd – faces peering anxiously over his shoulder.

Then the camera swung again, to show Ironman and Falcon swooping down on one of the floats – a large sphere of balloons on a trailer. Balloons that seemed to be glowing, expanding, quivering –

Falcon had landed and was clearing space around the float while Ironman hovered.

Just as the balloons began to spark, Captain America’s voice boomed out ‘ _Get Down!’_ And the whole crowd dropped. Ironman’s suit blasted out a blue light over the float and the whole thing exploded in a swirl of what looked like confetti.

There was a pause. The camera zoomed in to show an unimpressed looking Sam covered with rainbow confetti. Probably alien confetti.

‘ _Thank you everyone. The threat has been neutralized_.’ Captain America’s voice was warm. Like he was thanking _you_.

At One Armed Buck’s everyone breathed a sigh of relief out.

The scene cut to where Captain America was standing, Ironman landing lightly beside him, helmet opening up to reveal a smug looking Tony Stark.

Somehow, Fox News had got there first.

‘What now, Captain, will the parade be cancelled?’ The reporter – a mean looking woman with a blond helmet of hair all perfectly in place and a terrifying black and white pinstripe suit – thrust a microphone in the Captain’s face.

‘No, in a few minutes everyone should be able to continue on. We’re just cleaning up the mess.’

Bucky wondered _who_ exactly was doing the cleaning.

‘What are your personal views on the Parade, Captain?’

The Captain’s face was hard to read in the mask, but his lips seemed to tighten a little, and his eyes narrow. Did Tony just mouth _uh-oh_ in the background?

‘I think it’s wonderful that people can come out onto the streets to celebrate love and pride together.’

‘But don’t you think what they’re _celebrating_ goes against traditional American values? Values you fought for?’ The presenter leaned towards Steve. ‘Captain, we know that you are forced by the government to spout these _politically correct_ soundbites, but the American people want to hear what _you really think_.’

The Captain looked at her for a few moments. The crowd at One Armed Buck’s was silent, holding their collective breaths.

It was true, Bucky through, that ‘celebrating love and pride’ line did sound packaged, fake.

Then the Captain pulled of his mask and Steve Rogers stared at her with narrowed eyes. _Little shit_.

‘Okay, what I really think is that Pride marks the anniversary of people standing up against brutality and oppression. Brave transgender, gay, lesbian, bisexual, queer people standing up against policy harassment and violence. It marks a point in a struggle that went before and still goes on today. So yes, I do think people are here celebrating _love_ and _pride_ and _struggle_.’

Steve was standing, hands on hips, blue eyes blazing at the reporter, who looked like she had tasted of some bitter fruit.

‘And you know what,’ Steve continued, ‘this isn’t just an _abstract_ pride for me. Some of my best friends are out and proud and I support them.’

Tony gave a little wave and a thumbs up from behind Steve, flashing a hologram of a bi pride flag.

‘And I,’ Steve drew himself up, in an action which must have once been about making himself look bigger than he was. Completely unnecessary now, Bucky snorted to himself. ‘I’m queer. I was back when it was illegal, when you could be arrested. And I am now.’

The crowd went wild. The reporter was slack jawed. Tony was giving Steve a kiss on his very red cheeks. And Steve was being tugged into the crowd, into the march which was heading off again.

The bar roared, cheering and hugging.

Bucky stood in the maelstrom, staring at the screen, as Kate cranked up _Star Spangled Man_ on the stereo.

Some hours later, when things were entirely out of hand, Tony appeared in the doorway, dressed in the tight red shorts and gold t-shirt he must have been wearing under his suit.

‘ _Make way for the man of the hour!’_ he roared.

The crowd cheered as Steve stumbled in, blushing, still in his Captain outfit, but with rainbows painted on his face and glitter in his hair. Sam, Nat and Clint all followed. Even Bruce sidled in behind them all.

They were kissed and hugged across to a large booth which cleared out for them, then the crowd, blessedly intoxicated, returned to heaving and dancing and shouting.

Bucky worked his way over from the bar with a tray of drinks and set them down.

‘This one’s for you,’ he put a large pink cocktail in front of Steve. ‘This is made with Thor’s Asgardian whisky, so it hits harder than the mead.’

‘Thanks Bucky,’ Steve smiled up at him shyly.

Bucky narrowed his eyes at that stupid dimpled cheek.

‘And you need to get changed.’ Bucky produced a small handful of glittery material and colored mesh.

‘These should go okay with your boots.’

Bucky turned and stalked off into the press of bodies.

About 10 minutes later Kate elbowed him and pointed.

‘Are you responsible for this?’ she asked.

Steve was standing, looking _fucking bashful_ , having emerged from the bathrooms, in tiny sequined, American flag booty shorts and a mesh top with the Captain America Shield on the front.

You could see his nipples poking against the mesh. The shorts were barely containing him.

‘Did you just _keep those on hand_?’ Kate elbowed him again.

Bucky rolled his eyes. ‘I wore them once to a party, before I knew what _terrible person_ Captain America was.’

‘They’ve got a lot of stretch in them, hey?’

Bucky elbowed Kate back.

There were whistles and catcall from the Avengers as Steve made his way back to the table.

Bucky noticed he’d downed his pink drink and started mixing another. The man had come out today, after all.

The night entered the beautiful, rainbow fog it always did. Bucky was throwing bottles and people were cheering. Sam was giving Steve dancing lessons and those two booties moving in time were well worth _everyone_ watching. It turned out Steve Rogers couldn’t foxtrot but he could _grind_.

Then everyone was cheering Bucky onto the bar for his traditional Pride dance. And this year, as he leaned back and undulated his hips, thrusting up, he met Steve Rogers eyes, looking very dark in his pink, sweaty face with that stupid cowlick falling over his face.

And in the heat, and the rainbow fog, with Kate promising to lock up, and the bar closed tomorrow, Bucky took Steve’s hand and led him up the stairs to the little flat Bucky kept up there.

It was just one big studio room, with windows looking out over the river. It was quiet. The air was clearer. The noise from the bar hammered below, but it was muffled.

Bucky went to the kitchen and filled up two big glasses of icy water. He watched Steve’s throat bobbing as he swallowed it down, water spilling out of his mouth and across his chest. The sweat gleamed on his biceps, on his massive thighs, on his adorably wrinkled forehead.

Bucky finished his own glass and wiped his hand across his mouth. _He was not thinking about Steve Rogers being adorable_. His chest was full of _something_.

With a stride he was in front of Steve, who looked down at him through those lashes.

Bucky pressed a kiss to those soft, pink, wet lips. Steve tasted cold and salty. Bucky’s tongue pressed into his mouth and Steve _gave in_ , yielding with a shudder and a breathy moan. Bucky held his face and deepened the kiss. Their tongues circled and darted, Bucky bit down, felt the moan under his hands.

Then his hand was roaming over Steve, over the damp of his top, squeezing his pecs.

‘Such beautiful tits, Steve,’ Bucky growled into his ear, ‘so soft.’ Bucky pinched Steve’s nipples hard and drew out a whine, felt Steve’s hips writhe against Bucky, who pressed him hard against the bench.

‘Bucky,’ Steve pleaded, breathily.

‘What, Steve, what do you want.’ Bucky pressed his thigh between Steve’s legs, their bare, sweaty skin rubbing together, the sequins on their shorts scratching.

‘I want, I want – ’ Steve’s breath was coming in sobs ‘– want you to fuck me.’

Bucky moaned and buried his head in the crook of Steve’s neck, sucking and biting along the solid line of his trapezius. His breath was coming in pants, matching Steve’s. His flesh was burning with the heat of Steve, with the heat in his own belly.

Then he was grabbing Steve, pulling him towards the bed.

‘Boots off,’ Bucky gasped. ‘Fucking combat boots.’

They both fumbled to unlace their boots. Bucky kept being distracted by the stretch of the sequined shorts across Steve’s ass, the impossible expanse of his thighs.

But finally they were free. Steve was stumbling towards him. They were both ripping of the mesh tops, the shorts.

Bucky was pushing Steve onto the bed where he landed with an _oof_ staring up at Bucky with impossible, trusting, shining eyes. His lips were damp and parted, his hair wet with sweat. His huge body sprawled open and inviting.

Bucky rested on his knees between Steve’s spread legs, eyes feasting on the lines of his muscles, his beautiful red cock, uncut and resting in a soft-looking thatch of dark blond hair. Oh, and the tight swell of his balls, the swell of his ass cheeks between his thighs and the dark , inviting line of his crack.

‘You’re fucking _perfect_ , you asshole,’ Bucky murmured, and Steve blushed and squirmed, squeezing the bedsheets in his fists.

‘You’re beautiful, Bucky,’ Steve whispered, almost reverently.

Bucky looked at him, struck dumb for a moment. He was suddenly aware of his missing arm, the scars on his shoulder, his squishy belly, his _humanness_.

But Steve, _super_ human, was looking at Bucky like he was the world. Was laid out, vulnerable.

Bucky crawled over Steve and pressed their torsos together, pressing his squishy belly against Steve’s carved abs, pressing their lips together softly.

Steve sighed into Bucky’s mouth, and raised his huge, calloused hands to cradle Bucky’s face.

Bucky lowered his hips down and their cocks pressed together. As their lips parted, tongues and teeth growing more desperate, Bucky ground their lengths together, feeling the hot sparks of friction as Steve pushed back. Chasing. Chasing.

Then Bucky pulled away, grabbing the lube he’d thrown on the bed.

‘How do you - ?’ Steve asked, eyes glittering and chest flushed all the way down.

‘Stay right there, sweetheart. Bucky coated his fingers, having perfected a one-handed manoeuvre with the pump bottle.

He leaned his left shoulder into Steve’s right leg, pushing it back. Steve grabbed his left leg, revealing the pink blush across his ass cheeks, the furl of his hole.

‘Look at you,’ Bucky ran his slick finger across Steve’s taint, pushing to hear the little cries falling from Steve’s lips. He circled Steve’s hole, feeling it flutter and tense, then yield for him. Oh and Steve was so warm and tight. Bucky moved his finger, gently at first, then responding to the wriggle of Steve’s hips and thrusting all the way in, rewarded by a ragged moan and Steve’s eyes squeezing shut.

‘You like that, Stevie, like a little bit of a burn?’

‘Yes, Bucky, please,’ Steve rocked on Bucky’s finger.

Bucky withdrew for a moment to slick up more, but this time thrust in quick and hard with two fingers, his own cock throbbing at the wail from Steve, growing higher pitched as Bucky curled his fingers and pressed down on Steve’s prostate.

Steve’s chest was heaving, his eyelashes fluttering in sympathy with his tight hole.

It was those eyelashes that were going to destroy Bucky Barnes, bartender, Brooklynite.

Steve was bearing down desperately, hungrily. His eyes opened, fixed on Bucky, pupils blown.

‘Please Bucky,’ he whispered.

Who could refuse such a request from Captain America?

Bucky slicked his dick, gritting his teeth and breathing slow. Leaning onto Steve he guided his cock to Steve’s entrance, feeling the tight ring around the tip of his cock. He watched in wonder as he pressed in slowly, entering Steve. He moved his right hand to push Steve’s thigh back to his chest, Steve’s arms falling beside him on the bed to clutch again at the sheets.

And oh fuck Steve’s face, eyes still open and fixed on Bucky like he was the fucking moon and stars. Bucky could see the freckles on Steve’s nose, the sweat shining on his face, that stupid cowlick.

And the hot press of Steve’s body around his cock as Bucky slid in, both of them groaning deep and throaty as Bucky rammed home.

They stared into each others eyes, breath loud in their ears, the beat of the music from below so distant.

‘Fucking perfect,’ Bucky said hoarsely.

Then he started to fuck Steve in earnest, looking down to see his shaft fucking into Steve, looking up to see Steve’s furrowed brow, he open mouth. His cock lay swollen over his pale belly and Steve reached for it.

‘ _No,_ ’ barked Bucky, ‘you’re going to come on my cock, Steve.’

And he started fucking harder, angling Steve’s hips, watching those magnificent tits bounce, watching his hands scrabble at the sheets.

And oh the smack of sweaty flesh, the sound of Steve’s whimpers, moans, cries. Bucky’s guttural grunts as he put his all into fucking Steve Rogers into his mattress.

Bucky could feel his climax building, feel the hot liquid sensation building in his balls, in his belly. Sweat dripped from his face onto Steve’s, who opened his mouth as if to drink Bucky down. Blue eyes widening, shining with tears. Tight passage clenching around Bucky’s cock then Steve was coming in white streaks across his belly, sobbing as Bucky came in hot spurts into Steve.

Bucky gave way, collapsing onto Steve’s pillowy chest, wet with sweat and come, burying his head in Steve’s neck, their hearts hammering against one another.

The moment was long, and sticky, and strangely quiet. Peaceful, here in this space above the still seething bar.

Steve’s hands moved to Bucky’s head, stroking his doubtless disgusting and sweaty hair, still braided with ribbons.

‘Bucky,’ Steve said softly, hand moving tentatively and gently over Bucky’s cheek.

‘What?’ Bucky grumbled into Steve’s neck.

‘Do you not like me very much?’ Steve’s voice trembled a little.

Bucky rolled to the side a bit, so Steve could continue to touch his head, but Bucky could look at those ludicrous puppy dog eyes.

‘Steve,’ Bucky sighed, ‘you are the bane of my existence. You are a _little shit_ trapped in the body of a demigod.’

Steve’s sad eyes got bigger and sadder.

‘But,’ Bucky put his hand on Steve’s cheek, running his fingers across the place were sometimes a dimple appeared, ‘you give head like a fucking champion, you look exceptional in booty shorts, and I’m pretty sure you’ll be on the right side of the barricades. Figuratively. Probably you will have jumped to the wrong side just to start a fight.’

Bucky felt the little divot of the dimple appear as Steve started a small, tentative smile.

‘I guess I like you a bit, Steve Rogers,’ Bucky said, running his thumb along Steve’s lower lip.

‘I like you a lot, Bucky Barnes,’ Steve said, kissing Bucky’s hand.

Bucky dragged Steve off the bed and tolerate a few sticky cuddles on the way to the bathroom. His huge, industrial, concrete shower was perfectly supersoldier sized, and Bucky carefully cleaned all the sweat and come and glitter off Steve.

Well, not all the glitter.

It turned out that supersoldier dicks could easily go for a second round, with Bucky standing behind Steve, jerking him off with two fingers buried in his asshole, biting marks into his shoulders which vanished under the cool water.

Then Bucky rustled up some cheese and kimchi toasties and forced Steve to drink another litre of water. Steve complied with a dopey look on his face, dimple apparently permanently engraved into his cheek.

Bucky scowled at him and pushed another toastie across the table.

It turned out Steve Rogers really liked cuddles, and Bucky woke in the morning with Steve’s face pressed into his chest, trapped in tree-trunk arms.

Bucky stroked that stupid cowlick of Steve’s face, inhaling the smell of Bucky’s excellent hair products and Steve’s clean, soapy smell.

Bucky watched Steve’s eyelashes flicker as his eyes opened, the hesitant sunshine as he looked up at Bucky.

‘Would you like to grab some brunch?’ Steve asked, casually.

‘Aren’t you the 21st century kid?’ Bucky nuzzled into Steve’s hair. ‘You want smashed avocado?’

‘With waffles and eggs and bacon and maple syrup?’ Steve raised a hopeful eyebrow.

Bucky kissed Steve on the nose and wiggled himself free. Steve let go a little reluctantly, that shy look back on his face again.

A little sad, perhaps. Bucky had pretended not to notice that, before.

‘There are a few logistical issues to deal with first, Captain,’ Bucky said, surveying the room with his hand on his hips, in particular the discarded scraps of clothing glittering in the sunlight. ‘Like what you’re going to wear.’

‘What happened to my uniform?’ Steve pondered.

‘You sacrificed it to Pride,’ Bucky pronounced. ‘Or to the men’s room.’

In the end, Steve wound up in a too tight t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that fit him more like leggings.

Bucky resolutely ignored the door to the bar, and they slipped out into the alley.

In the sunshine, Steve reached out his hand to Bucky, who glared at it and then held it tightly. They walked hand in hand down the street, in search of brunch.

Finally tucked into a little table in a café with lots of exposed brick and wood paneling, mountains of food on order, Bucky inhaled the bitter scent of black coffee and gave a contended sigh.

Steve’s feet pressed gently against Bucky’s, and those giant hands cradled an extra-large latte, making it look like a piccolo.

Steve’s dimple was sadly absent.

‘Bucky,’ he said, eyelashes looking heavy and sad.

_Eyelashes don’t have emotions Barnes. Pull yourself together. Though if any eyelashes were to develop sentience…._

‘Bucky, I guess you know I really like you.’

Bucky snorted into his coffee, pants getting uncomfortably tight at the memory of Steve writhing beneath him. At the _possibilities_ of Steve on all fours with his ass in the air, bent over Bucky’s bench, riding Bucky with his head thrown back –

Steve was blushing hot pink, maybe having some similar thoughts. Hopefully having some similar thoughts.

‘Anyway, I’d like to, you know, _date_.’ Steve wriggled ( _adorably_ ) in his seat.

Bucky frowned. That sad look was still there. Bucky was going to have to man up.

‘Steve, I know I’m a bit – prickly – sometimes.’ Bucky breathed out. His game was really rusty. The fucking was fine. The morning after. It had been a _long while_. ‘But I like you too. Particularly now you’ve toned down the fighting.’

‘I’m so sorry about that Bucky, I didn’t know what happened to you.’ Steve peered at him tragically through his bangs.

Bucky waved his hand. ‘It’s fine. I know you had your own shit you were working through.’

Steve looked into his mug again.

‘That’s the thing Bucky. I don’t know if I’m good for you. With all the avenging. And,’ Steve chewed his lip, ‘I don’t know if I’ll _get old_ like a normal person.’

Oh. Oh that was a thing Steve was worried about. That perfect body. Unlike anyone else. Survived all those years in the ice. _I don’t know_.

‘Steve,’ Bucky squeezed Steve’s knee between his thighs under the table, watching the little shudder Steve gave at the touch, ‘life is full of uncertainty and random events. None of us know when we’re going to die, or how exactly we’re going to live. I think we should eat brunch, and fuck, and you can take me for a ride on your motorbike, and we can see how it goes.’

Steve was staring at him with that look that was something like wonder, blue eyes shining like the fucking sky.

\-----

A year later, they woke late after Pride, tangled up in the sheets. Steve ran his hand over Bucky’s belly. Which was maybe a little rounder after a year of eating with a supersoldier.

But Steve didn’t seem to mind.

Bucky stroked Steve’s neck. He’d learnt a few things in the past year, since his little speech to Steve.

The main one was that while he still had no idea how or when he was going to die, he knew exactly how he wanted to live – loving Steve Rogers.

Who right now was kissing Bucky’s belly with those soft, pink, wet lips, kissing down to where Bucky’s cock was stirring. Steve looked up at him, dimple creasing his cheek, eyelashes fluttering tenderly, responding _yes yes yes_ to Bucky’s questioning fingers brushing through his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I welcome all comments and criticism, constructive or otherwise. 
> 
> I am also on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/stuckyflangst) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/powerfulowl2)
> 
> This was my first ever oneshot! I usually do a little reflection at the end of a fic about what I learned writing it. My Steve and Bucky in this story were a little different to how I usually do them. Bucky was pricklier and Steve less so. But that was the dynamic I had in my head for them. It's interesting to explore the boundaries of characters in terms of your own headcanons.
> 
> Getting to the end was harder for a one shot because you've had less time with the characters. I was going to end it straight after their night together, which felt neater from a structural perspective, but I felt they deserved a bit more time. Was it enough? I welcome your thoughts dear readers.


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